


twilight choices

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Bodyguard Romance, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23307634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: Raising the whiskey glass to her mouth, Clarke let the rim rest against her lower lip. Her index finger tapped against the opposite side of the nearly empty drink in lazy time with the bass pounding from the speakers scattered throughout the club. From her dim corner, she was content simply to watch as others ground up on one other on the dance floor.Not so long ago, she would have joined them. She would have danced with, and kissed, one of the strangers down there, or maybe more than one. She would have gone home with a not-so-nice boy or girl, only to leave them before the sun rose.Not tonight, though.Tonight, she was waiting on someone.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 117





	twilight choices

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, been reading a lot of space mafia romances and then this happened. 
> 
> title is based on lyrics from Broken Crown by Mumford & Sons ("But in this twilight, our choices seal our fate")

Raising the whiskey glass to her mouth, Clarke let the rim rest against her lower lip. Her index finger tapped against the opposite side of the nearly empty drink in lazy time with the bass pounding from the speakers scattered throughout the club. From her dim corner, she was content simply to watch as others ground up on one other on the dance floor.

Not so long ago, she would have joined them. She would have danced with, and kissed, one of the strangers down there, or maybe more than one. She would have gone home with a not-so-nice boy or girl, only to leave them before the sun rose.

Not tonight, though.

She took a sip of her drink, finishing it off. The whiskey slid down her throat like liquid silk, and Clarke took distinct pleasure in the sharp, bright burn it left in its wake. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees. Her dress caught slightly on the purple velvet cushion as she moved, inching the hem farther up her thigh. Feeling more than one set of eyes on her newly exposed skin, she let her lips curve up a fraction into a knowing smirk.

They could look, but they would never touch. There were perks to being the heiress to one of the biggest crime syndicates this side of the galaxy. It was her family’s club, after all. No one would, or could, touch her here, not unless she granted permission. And right now, she wasn’t in a giving mood.

Impatience that bordered on irritation flared as she looked at her wrist comm. He was late. It was long past midnight, and she was on her third whiskey. She flicked her eyes towards the bar, considering something more reckless, like tequila, but stopped herself. Bellamy had his rules, after all.

_I won’t fuck you if you’re drunk. _

While she hadn’t met a rule she didn’t feel compelled to break, she wanted him tonight more than she wanted another drink. Clarke licked her lips, wondering if they would still taste like whiskey later. She knew it drove him crazy when they did.

The music changed from a fast, pulsing beat to a slow, sultry melody, and a tingle ran up her spine. Resisting a shiver, she arched her bare back and looked over her shoulder. Figures shifted behind her, signaling the changing of her guard.

She pressed her mouth to her shoulder as her lips twisted into a satisfied smile. Heat–from the whiskey, from his presence–spiraled in her gut, spreading in licking flames to the tips of her fingers, to her cheeks, to the juncture of her thighs. With the empty glass swinging between her fingers, Clarke stood suddenly. She sauntered towards the dance floor, making sure that her hips swayed and that her steps were unsteady. She twirled as she reached the edge of the writhing crowd, the hand with the glass extended in the air. It caught the glare of the flashing lights, kaleidoscoping the bright colors into the dark warehouse. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back and let the music take her over.

Her hips twisted and dipped in ways that she knew would drive him crazy. They had played this game before. It was one of their favorites. As one song rolled into three, into five, Clarke continued to dance. She danced alone; she danced for him. Two songs later, she was still dancing, which was far longer than she normally did. He had been late, and she was looking to punish him, just a little.

He would punish her right back later, and it was that thought which made her loosen her grip on her glass. Arm outstretched, she let it slide right through her fingers, and it smashed into a thousand pieces as it hit the floor. People shouted, and she faked a drunken stumble to the side. A heartbeat later, and Bellamy’s strong arm slid around her waist. He never missed her signal. It was his job to watch her, after all.

“Time to go home, princess,” he growled in her ear. While her drunkenness was feigned, his frustration was not. She resisted a satisfied grin as he hauled her off the dance floor.

He kept his arm around her as they exited the club. She lolled around a bit, trying to make it look like she really was three sheets to the wind. No sooner were they outside than he motioned to the valet, and before she could so much as shiver in the brisk wind, their transporter was brought around. Bellamy nodded to the driver before pouring her into the backseat. As he climbed in, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and glanced towards the partition. It was closed.

The door shut, and she was already climbing into his lap. His large, rough hands clamped down on her hips as she cupped his jaw and crushed her mouth against his. Immediately, his tongue pressed against the seam of her lips, demanding entry. She fought him for a few brief seconds, but she couldn’t help but moan when he finally licked into her. He kissed her with a hard desperation, born out of too many hours (days, _weeks_) of looking-but-never-touching. It drove her to distraction when he was on rotation as her bodyguard. And while, like tonight, she occasionally would give Bellamy a show that he had to stand there and take, it was as hard for her as it was for him.

His hands eventually slid down her thighs, thumbs stroking at her knees before he slipped them under the hem of her dress. With a punishing slowness, he continued to lift it until, finally, eventually, it reached her waist. In retaliation, Clarke pulled back and nipped his bottom lip, hard.

“Clarke,” he exhaled roughly, warningly.

She merely ground down on his lap in response, pleased when it elicited a long groan from Bellamy. Leaning down, she kissed him again, heatedly, wetly, as she continued to roll her hips against his. He slid a palm up her back until his fingers tangled in her hair. With a firm but gentle and tug, he tilted her head back.

“Patience,” he murmured against her neck. His lips traced across her pulse, his breath sending sparks across her skin.

“No,” she replied with a haughty petulance.

His eyes glittered darkly, but she continued to stare him down. As the car rounded a familiar turn, she quirked a smug smile at him.

“We’re already halfway home.”

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

Bellamy let out another swear, but he was already reaching for the edge of her panties. As he pushed them aside and began teasing her wet folds, she trembled with an extraordinary need that he was so close to unleashing. Fumbling at his waistband, Clark had just managed to unzip him when he slid one thick finger inside her. She let out a gasping cry, squeezing her eyes shut against the delicious friction of his strokes. With every crook of his finger, he twisted the knots building up inside her tighter. Shuddering as he added a second finger, she began rocking her hips. Knowing what she needed—he always knew exactly what she needed—he pressed his thumb hard against her, and the knots pulled so taught that they snapped. She cried out his name as she came, finding delicious satisfaction in the way that her walls fluttered around his fingers and in how his lips curved into a smile against the crook of her neck.

Clarke didn’t wallow in the exhilaration that he had brought her. They didn’t have the time. Barely had he removed his hands from her underwear than she had him in her own hand, stroking him to readiness. Bellamy slid his hips slightly forward, and she rose up at the same time. Panting, he handed her a condom, and she rolled it on. Then, with impatient greediness, she sheathed him inside her. He whispered a strained _fuck_ into her collarbone as she rode him, hard and fast. They would be coming up on her street soon, and she had no intention of letting him leave this car any less satisfied than she would be.

With a groan, he bucked into her, movements so erratic that she knew she had him. A scrape of her fingernails across the back of his shoulder, a whisper of his name, and he found his release. Bellamy clutched her to him, one hand pressed at the small of her back, the other at the nape of her neck. As he let out one final shudder, the press of him against her made ecstasy flood through her a second time. 

Gulping in breaths, she slumped against him, utterly spent. Bellamy breathed just as hard, tracing idle shapes on her back. With a final sigh, Clarke closed her eyes, floating in the peaceful glow that only seemed to come to her in moments like this. Moments with him.

She was smart enough to know that someone like her, the heiress to her family’s dark legacy, wasn’t supposed to find comfort in someone like Bellamy. This thing with them had started as a game, and while they both acted like it still was, somewhere along the way, Clarke had forgotten what exactly she was trying to win. In moments like these, in the afterglow of being with him, she could even admit that she had already lost to him. Lost not just the game, but something far more precious, something that put both of them in danger. The life she was destined to lead had no room for sentiment, no space for anything other than meaningless flings or relationships that advanced the family business. So these stolen moments were all they had, and she would be an utter fool if she pretended another future lay ahead of them.

Soon enough—_too soon_, a quiet voice whispered—the transporter began to rise. Without a word, Clarke disentangled herself from Bellamy’s warmth and began putting herself back together. Lucky for her that looking well fucked could easily be mistaken for looking trashed. By the time they reached the dock of her family’s penthouse, she was covered up in all the important places. As usual, Bellamy looked completely unruffled, as if they had not even touched at all.

Schooling her features into placidness, she stumbled out of the transporter as soon as it halted. Humming loudly, she twirled toward the glass doors leading into her home. She could hear Bellamy following her from a few feet behind, as if watching her to make sure she didn’t twirl right off the dock into the street fifty feet below.

She reached the entryway and swung around, suddenly needing one last look at him.

“Thanks,” she sang at him, still maintaining her drunken facade. “For being my knight in shining armor.”

He gave her a curt nod, betraying nothing, not even in his gaze. Clarke stifled the flare of disappointment and melancholy at his stoicism before turning her back on him. She waltzed inside, her steps light even as her heart beat so very heavily in her chest.

* * *

Wind whipped at Bellamy’s hair as he stared out over the city from the top of the Griffin family building. Despite the scent of transporter exhaust and eleven million people on the air, he could still smell her–on him, around him. Whiskey and something floral. Every time he meant to ask what it was, but her laugh, her smile, or her tart words would distract him.

Clarke always distracted him, from his bodyguard duties and from his other responsibilities. He hadn’t expected her, and therein lay the fucking crux of his problem.

For the third time in twenty minutes, the comm in his pocket buzzed. Jaw clenched, he finally reached in and accepted the call he had been trying so hard to avoid.

“Blake.”

“Oh good, you’re not dead.”

Bellamy didn’t bother to respond. He knew Shumway wouldn’t accept any excuses, not that he had any acceptable ones to give for his inability to be reached lately.

“Now that we know you aren’t lying in a crater somewhere with your throat slit, how about you give me a fucking update on getting those files.”

“I told you,” Bellamy ground out, “that I’ve looked everywhere. No one here has a copy of them.”

“Including the daughter? Griffin was close to her. Might have given her something, told her something, even if she doesn’t realize it.”

Bellamy gripped the railing tighter, knuckles turning white. “Princess knows nothing. Besides, wouldn’t he have told you if he had?”

“He didn’t get a chance,” Shumway growled. “Jaha moved quickly once he found out who had been leaking info to the police.”

Bellamy waited, knowing Shumway always had more to say. A beat later, he continued, “Well, the files have to be somewhere, so keep looking. Oh, and Blake? Your sister’s paperwork just came through. Sitting on my desk right now, in fact.”

“Glad to hear it.” He hoped only he could hear the strangled, desperate lilt to his voice.

“Keep your end of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine.”

The line went dead, and Bellamy wrenched himself away from the railing before he could chuck his comm over the side. Lieutenant Shumway was as corrupt as they came, but he held Octavia’s freedom in his hands. And so did Bellamy, having infiltrated one of the biggest organized crime families in Arkadia in order to ferret out information to exchange for his sister’s release from prison. When Shumway had come to him with the offer, Bellamy had taken it, no second thoughts. He hadn’t had anything to lose except his sister when he started this mission.

Now, though, if he managed to save his sister, he would lose something else—someone else—just as important to him. No matter how much she seemed to loathe her position in life, Clarke was born to be a leader in the underground realm to which her family belonged. Bellamy had no doubt she would survive, even thrive, in such a role. With the government and police force as corrupt as they were in Arkadia, he even thought her ascendency could be good for the city. Not only would his betrayal take that opportunity from her, it would also cost her the only family she had left. He knew that would break her, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

He had to save Octavia, there was no other choice. As he watched the sun rise on yet another day, though, Bellamy couldn’t ignore the sick feeling in his gut that told him losing Clarke was something he might not ever recover from.

**Author's Note:**

> Probably won't write any follow-ups to this, just an idea that wouldn't leave me alone, but as always, comments are particularly appreciated ;)


End file.
